


He Told Me He'd Do Anything

by sinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Not Underage (just about), SAM X DEAN - Freeform, Stanford!Wincest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinchester/pseuds/sinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short yet sweet (?) Stanford!Wincest drabble, that I will continue if it is requested. Feedback appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Told Me He'd Do Anything

He told me he'd do anything.

 

He said he'd do anything if it meant I'd stay, and not go to Stanford. I'd never seen him so desperate before; so lost. Not even when dad would raise his hand as if he was going hit him, even if he didn't. Not even when someone at school would ask about his mom: how she was, if she'd let him go out tonight. Not even when he decided he'd had enough of high school.

 

I didn't know what to tell him.

I thought about what I would ask of him. I thought about it that summer before Stanford, while Dean was teaching me to drive and kept telling me to "keep my eyes on the road, keep my mind on the road". God, I wished I could keep my mind on something else for more than a few damned seconds.

I thought about it when Dean was on the couch of the current motel we were in, sloppily making out with some girl, Hannah, Elizabeth, Charlotte, half-drunk off the crappy beer from the store down the road.

I thought about it when I was bringing home pizza from the take-out on foot because the stupid motel phone line was down, and I'd pause at the door and hear Dean and dad yelling the roof down about how dad thought it was "best for me to go". I didn't think about how I peeked through the letterbox like a child and saw Dean's hands trembling behind his back, every time. I thought about this.

I thought about it when Dean was shoving me towards a woman who was probably too old for me at a bar, telling me I "couldn't go off to college with that lack of sex life", and I was blushing so hard you could probably evaporate a liquid on my cheeks and telling him to get lost.

I thought about it when Dean and I would drive off to God knows where in the Impala at 3am because we needed to escape, and he'd hum along to Bob Seger or Zeppelin or whatever crap I'd pretend not to like, but secretly sing under my breath the next day.

 

On the last night, I knew. 

"Kiss me."

Dean chuckled from his twin sized bed next to mine, his torso propped up by one elbow so his body was angled towards me, and his face lit up brighter than the lamp illuminating it. He said to me, 'Sammy, do you know who you're talkin' to? I know you had a few beers earlier, but come on... I ain't no nerdy chick from senior yea-'

"Kiss me, and I won't go to Stanford." 

He paused, then.

 

"You'd better get some sleep, Sammy. Big day tomorrow."

He turned off the lamp, and lay down in the dark.

 

I went to Stanford that morning.


End file.
